


I'm on the hunt down I'm after you

by loracarol



Series: I'm lost and I'm found [2]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Ernesto is a bag of dicks, Gen, Mild Gore, Werewolf AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 08:59:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14305272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loracarol/pseuds/loracarol
Summary: The first time Ernesto sees the wolf, it goes like this.





	I'm on the hunt down I'm after you

Ernesto gets the idea while he’s at a bar, getting drunk, and complaining to anyone who’d listen about Héctor’s little “homesickness” problem. Héctor hadn’t joined him; he was up in their hotel room writing a letter to his _familia_. “It’s not even like he has a son,” he grumbles, “just a  _daughter_. And that _woman_.”

 

His neighbor, just as drunk as Ernesto, if not drunker, nodded in agreement, before demanding another two shots of tequila from the bartender.

 

“This was our dream,” Ernesto muttered, staring into his shot glass. “But now, he wants to go _home_ ,” he slammed down the shot, “Take his songs and his guitar and just _leave_.”

 

“That _cabron_.” The other man said, swaying a little, and pounding back his shot glass. “Why would he take the songs, they’re your songs too, right?”

 

Ernesto shook his head, “I mean, yes, he’s the one that _writes_ most of them, but _yes_ we perform them together, why can’t he see that? If he’s going to leave, he should at _least_ pay me back for everything I’ve done for him!” Shaking his head, he ordered another round of shots. He was already drunk, he knew by the way he swayed in his seat, but he couldn’t help it. Besides, they’d be leaving first thing in the morning anyway, he could just abandon his tab.

 

As the night wore on, Ernesto and his new friend moved away from the bar, and to one of the booths in the back. He didn’t know the man’s name, but honestly, he didn’t care - he had someone listening to him, something he sorely needed. At the least, he knew that the man was a traveller, and he claimed to be some sort of _medico_.

 

“I got most of my recipes from my _bisabuela_ back in Europe.” He had said in the one brief moment Ernesto stopped talking. “I’ve been testing to see if the ingredients here can match the ones back home.”

 

“I don’t care.” Ernesto said, staring into his glass. They had moved away from tequila, and were working on beer.

 

“Ayyy ese, hear me out! You don’t want your friend to live, right?”

 

Glaring, Ernesto said, “After everything I’ve done, he _can’t_ leave - he can’t _abandon_ me!”

 

“Yeah, so I was thinking,” the man said, opening his coat, and pulling out a small glass vial, “I was thinking, you could give him some of _this_.”

 

“Water.” Ernesto said, looking at it with one eyebrow raised.

 

“Nonononono, this is _a magic potion_ the man said, eyes alight with an inner fire. Lowering his voice to a harsh whisper, he leaned closer to Ernesto, the alcohol on his breath practically visible from how much the man had been drinking. “See, with this, he won’t be able to play guitar anymore, _or_ sing his songs, so he’ll _have_ to give them to you!”

 

“Of course it is.” He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, how much do you want for it?”

 

No matter what number the man rolled out, it would be too high for _that_. When he heard the actual price he wanted to grab the man by the throat and shake him; he was asking for enough to _travel back to Spain_.

 

_For a vial of water_.

 

Now Ernesto wasn’t just annoyed, he was _furious_.

 

This man… How _dare_ he.

 

And he knew right then that the vial would be his by the end of the night, one way or another; no one got away with messing with _him_.

 

As the night went on, Ernesto began to take longer on each drink, making sure to sip the beverages slowly, so as to delay getting even more drunk.

 

When the other man stepped out of the booth, Ernesto was there at his side, offering him help getting home. The other man agreed with a raucous laugh. “I’m not exactly at my best, right now!” He said cheerfully, “But once I have enough money to go back to _España_ , I can figure out more of those recipes, and get rich!”

 

“It’s good for people to have a dream.” Ernesto said, feeling more sober then he actually was, and burning with a determination.

 

“ _Si_. Oh, I’m in that hotel, over there.”

 

Ernesto looked to where the man was pointing, and decided a quick detour was in order. Making sure no one was around - and who would be at this hour - he walked the man into an alleyway.  

 

Five minutes later, Ernesto exited the alleyway alone with the _stupid_ glass vial.

 

He had no idea what he was going to do with it, but it was _his_.

 

* * *

 

The trip out of town the next morning was uneventful, and Ernesto fell asleep on the train almost immediately.

 

When he woke up, he had a hangover, the start of a plan in his head, and he’d completely forgotten about his drunk conversations or the vial stashed in the inside pocket of his jacket.

 

* * *

 

At least, until Mexico City.

 

Héctor would _not_ _drop_ going home, and Ernesto hated him for it. Couldn’t he see that achieving their dream might take a little bit of a sacrifice? How close they were? He tried to get Héctor to see reason, but...

 

...This time Héctor already had a train ticket.

 

Swearing under his breath, Ernesto found the vial in his pocket, and froze. Pulling it out, it took him a moment to realize where he had gotten it from, and the promises that came with it. He had thought it plain water in the dingy bar, but looking at it in the sunlight streaming through the windows, he could see that that wasn’t _quite_ it. It had an oily sheen to it, and the liquid inside was far too viscous to be water.

 

Well, maybe there was something to what that crazed drunk had been saying after all.

 

Ernesto slid it back into his pocket, and made a plan. He would try one more time to convince Héctor to stay, to see if Héctor had any pity in his heart for his old friend. If not, well there was always the vial.

 

And if that didn’t work, he could always try rat poison.

 

* * *

 

_I would move heaven and earth for you, amigo_.

 

* * *

 

 

Ernesto insisted on walking Héctor to the train station. He had to _see_ \- he had to _know_.

 

The first glimmer that maybe that man hadn’t been completely _loco_ came when Héctor nearly dropping his guitar as he bent over in pain. They were at the train station, abandoned so late at night, and the train had some time still before it arrived. Ernesto wondered idly if Héctor had been trying to leave early on purpose.

 

“Ernesto,” Héctor whispered, “Something is _wrong_.”

 

“Must have been that chorizo,” Ernesto mentioned lightly, “Here, let me help with this.” He took Héctor’s guitar, from unresisting hands, before helping Héctor with the suitcase as well. “Héctor, you don’t look well, maybe we should retur-” Ernesto started, and Héctor flinched at the sound. Before Ernesto could do anything else, Héctor was on him, grabbing at his jacket with shaking hands, using Ernesto to stay upright.

 

“Please, ‘Nesto,” he said, words coming out harsh and thick in the cool night air, “Something is _wrong_ , and I can’t… I can’t…” Héctor was practically sobbing, as he continued to beg Ernesto for help with increasing intensity. “ _Dios mío_ it _hurts_!”

 

“There there,” Ernesto said soothingly, “It will be over soon.” He tried to pat Héctor’s back in an approximation of empathy - but found he couldn’t - Héctor was burning up.

 

Then-

 

Then-

 

There was the sound of tearing fabric, as Héctor’s clothes started to split at the seams as easily as _papel picado_. There was a moment as Ernesto’s mind refused to take in what he was seeing, as he was unable to even _comprehend_ what was going on with Héctor, and then everything snapped into sharp relief. Héctor’s skin was tearing apart, exposed musculature gleaming red as Héctor being to grow and to -

_change_.

 

There might have been someone screaming, it might have even been him, but Ernesto couldn’t tell, horror surrounding him until he could barely breathe.

 

_And Héctor hadn’t let go of Ernesto’s lapels_.

 

Héctor began to loom over Ernesto as his body continued to lengthen and grow. Numbly, Ernesto watched as the exposed patches of muscle were covered in something approximating skin, something that was then followed with patches of - was that _fur_ ? Something was wrong with Héctor’s face; his teeth had grown larger, sharper - larger than his body could handle, and Ernesto could see blood where Héctor’s teeth had torn away at his own flesh. His cries of pain had been transformed into a whimper, then a _howl_ of agony as he lost his ability to speak, and his face was _melting_ and bubbling in a way that no man’s ever should.

 

There was bile coming up in Ernesto’s throat, and he fought to keep it down. Tequila had been a bad choice; the vial he had stolen had been a bad choice. He should have just stuck to rat poison.

 

There was a _crunch_ as something in Héctor’s stance stiffened, then shifted, and all of a sudden Ernesto was supporting the weight of Hector-that-was, the beast no longer able to stand on two legs unsupported. The monster flailed, as the hands grasping Ernesto’s lapel turned to paws and he no longer had that support either.

 

Ernesto was falling backwards, no longer able to bear the weight.

 

The wolf fell with him, scrambling desperately to find purchase somewhere- anywhere. His limbs were far longer than he was used to, his center of gravity completely shifted, and what was left of Héctor Rivera screamed in the wolf’s head for his friend to _get away_.  

 

As he fell backwards, he felt a sharp pain as one of the monster’s giant claws gouged a canyon through his face. As the wolf tried to scramble away, he could feel a pressure on his chest and the hand he had thrown up to protect himself.

 

He heard _cracks_.   

 

His head hit the road, and he was out.

 

* * *

 

He had never imagined returning to Santa Cecilia. Not even just _like this_ , but not at all.

 

But after three months, he was out of money, and the _medico_ was sending him home. It had taken him the first _maldito_ month just to be able to sit up in bed on his own. Two to be able to walk without running into things. By the third, he could walk, he could care for himself, but his hands, his hands - his left had been broken completely, and he had prayed every day to _Santa Maria_ and the others that it would heal enough that he could play. His other wasn’t in as bad of shape, but it had been as scratched up as his face had been, and sometimes all he could feel was a tingle in his fingertips.   

 

_But he would not fail._

 

He had Héctor’s guitar - now his by right, seeing how Héctor had been planning on abandoning him. He had the notebook filled with songs he could use to make him famous. He had the bottle of heroin the _medico_ had given him for the pain. He had. He had.

 

He had an eyepatch, from where they had had to remove his eye, it was gouged so bad.

 

He had stitches across his face, and the promise of a future scar.

 

He had a story about Héctor abandoning him, and being jumped by thugs who had come off the train, then vanished into the night.

 

He had a future; he just had to let his body finish healing, had to get his finger dexterity back to what it was, convince the muscles in his arm and hand that they needed to follow _his_ commands. It would be hard, but he would seize his moment, he would achieve his dream; and he would forget that _hijo de puta_ who had tried to take everything away from him.

 

* * *

 

He was Ernesto de la Cruz, and he was going to become the greatest musician of all time.

 

No matter what it took.

 

    

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit welcome. :) 
> 
> I believe heroin was used as a pain medication up until the 1920s - at least, that's when Bayer lost their rights to the trademark as part of the Versailles Treaty. I did have some trouble determining if it would be in use in Mexico at the time period, but then I figured.... ehhhhh......... how much does it actually matter............ 
> 
> (But seriously, if you actually know the answer to this, please tell me!) 
> 
> I'm always up for answer questions [on my tumblr blog](http://loracarol.tumblr.com/)! Anon is on. 


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